by Sarah Jio
A surprise, or a…revelation? I remember the call in Provence from the woman named Emma.
“It’ll all be fine,” she says. The bells on the door jingle as two people enter the studio: a man in his midforties and a little girl with pigtails.
“Mama!” she cries, running to Inès, who scoops her up and spins her around in a little tornado of love. I think about what Inès had just said about choosing life.
“Sweet child,” she says, pointing to her daughter’s mouth. “What is this? You lost a tooth!”
As I watch the precious exchange between mother and daughter, something deep inside of me aches, like a surge of phantom pain from a missing limb, long since amputated.
I smile and turn to the door. “Good night,” I say softly to them all.
There’s a chill in the air outside, and I pull my sweater tighter around my body as my phone buzzes in my purse.
“Hello,” I say.
“Caroline, it’s Dr. Leroy.”
“Oh, hi,” I say.
“You haven’t returned the messages I’ve left at your apartment, so I thought I’d try your cellphone.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was…out of town.”
“And how are you feeling?”
How am I feeling? A cacophony of words come to mind: overwhelmed, scared, unsure, worried, frustrated, insecure. But somehow, I am unable to settle on one.
“I feel…” I say, my voice cracking a bit, tears welling up in my eyes. “I don’t know. Lost, I guess.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “We’ve done all we can for you medically, but I think it would do you good to talk to someone. I know a therapist who specializes in memory loss. His name is Louis Marchand. He has an office not too far from you—a few streets up from the rue Cler, if I’m not mistaken. I’ll text you his phone number. Why don’t you call him, make an appointment?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“I promise, he won’t bite,” she continues.
I sigh, remembering Inès’s words. “Okay, I’ll call him.”
“Good,” she says. “Oh, Caroline, I’ve been wondering, have you…” Her voice trails off.
“What?”
She pauses for another moment. “Oh, it’s nothing.” She clears her throat. “Take care of yourself, my dear.”
As I walk ahead, I think of what Victor said the other day about living in the moment, focusing on the present, the here and now. He’d asked me to trust him. Could I?
As the sun sets, it casts a glow of orange on the city. Everyone, it seems, has a place to be, or belong. A mother and her little boy scurry across the street to the bakery just ahead. A dog and its owner scale the steps to an apartment to my right. A woman on a bicycle chimes her bell as she passes, probably eager to meet her boyfriend or husband at a quiet bistro somewhere.
But what about me? Where do I belong? I veer right toward my apartment. Margot will be there. I’ll stay up and have a cup of tea with her. But when I hear church bells ringing in the distance, I freeze. Somehow, I feel compelled to seek them out. I look overhead to see if I can locate a steeple, a spire, anything churchy. And then I spot an ancient-looking building at the end of the block, with a bell tolling on top. A small elderly woman stands at the entrance, welcoming people as they walk in.
I inch closer, but stop before climbing the steps to the entrance.
“Well?” the old woman says to me a few moments later. “Have you made up your mind yet?”
I turn around to see if she’s talking to someone behind me, but there is no one else.
“I’m sorry,” I say, confused. “Made up my mind?”
“Yes,” she continues. “About whether you’re going to come in for the service or not. We don’t bite, you know.”
I smile, taking a step forward, then another.
“Good girl,” she says when I reach the top of the steps. “Take any seat you like.”
I nod, then sit down on a pew in the very back. Everyone is singing hymn number forty-seven, so I pick up the little book in front of me, find the right page, and sing, too. When everyone kneels, I kneel. When they pray, I pray. And when I close my eyes, I…hear the palm trees.
I am, at once, eight, plus or minus, in a blue gingham dress and white patent-leather buckle shoes. My hair is in braids and I’m holding my mother’s hand. She is beautiful. Very thin, in a gold dress, with wavy blond hair, parted at the center and cascading down each side of her face.
“Mama, why are we going to this place?” I gaze up at an enormous building with a bell at the very top.
“It’s called church,” she says, smiling at me.
I peer up at the building inquisitively. “What do you do there?”
She kneels down so her eyes meet mine. “You learn about God, honey, and you pray, and sing.”
I nod as if this all makes sense, but it doesn’t.
“When I was little,” she continues, “my mama took me to church, just like I’m taking you now. And I learned an important lesson.”
“And what was that?”
“That there is no problem so big that Jesus can’t solve it.”
Even at the age of eight, I am acutely aware of what Mama’s “problem” is.
I reach for her hand. “Can God fix Daddy, Mama?”
She doesn’t answer the question, not directly. Instead she hugs me and takes a deep breath. “Ready?”
I nod, and together we scale the steps to the entrance. There is lots of singing, and so many big words I don’t understand. And then everyone bows his or her head and prays. Mama closes her eyes tightly and folds her hands. I’m praying, too, that Mama is right. That no problem is too big for God to fix.
When I open my eyes, the church is empty. I am on my knees, hands folded. A teenage boy is near the altar, snuffing out candles. Startled, I reach for my bag and head for the door.
The older woman at the entrance is waiting for me.
“I prayed for you tonight,” she says. “That you will find your way.”
“Merci,” I say, blinking back tears. Outside, I reach for my cellphone and find the therapist’s phone number in a text from Dr. Leroy, then give him a call.
CHAPTER 16
CÉLINE
“Get up,” Reinhardt barks, jerking my arm upward, forcing me to stand. “You said it’s a nice day for a walk, so we’ll walk.”
“Where are you taking them?” I cry, turning back to the street down which the vehicle that carried Papa and Cosi sped off. “What will you do with them?”
He appears unconcerned with my anxiety. “Now don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. We treat our prisoners with dignity.”
“Prisoners?” I cry.
“Why yes, that’s what they are.”
“But they’ve done nothing. You must let them go. I beg of you.”
“I’m afraid you’re wrong about that,” he says with a sinister smile. “They were born wrong. You were too.”
“Please,” I continue. “Spare them. I’ll do anything.”
“Anything?” he asks, amused. “I’ll have to consider that.”
We walk a few blocks ahead. What would our neighbors think? Could anyone help us? I notice someone looking at us from an upper window. A woman. But just as soon as our eyes meet, she pulls her curtains shut. How I long to be back in the comfort of my apartment with Cosi and Papa, just as we were this morning, just as it all used to be.
“We’re almost home,” he says, tightening his grasp on my arm.
I shiver as he leads me back to the rue Cler, but we’re not going to my home. The apartment building in front of us is one of Paris’s fanciest. Two of our clients have homes here. I’d made the deliveries myself when Nic had been ill, peeking inside only briefly when a housekeeper or maid signed for the order.
Before Reinhardt leads me inside the building’s entryway he gestures to the grand structure, pointing at the top floor. “It’s already the most exquisite penthouse in Paris,” he brags, tightening his grip on my arm. “But I think it needs a bit more…decor. You’ll help me with that.” My legs move as we enter the building and proceed to the elevator, but I don’t feel as if they are walking, not really. I merely float.
He pushes the button to summon the elevator and smiles. “Bet you’ve never lived in a building with one of these.”
I don’t respond, and only stare ahead as he leans in close to me, placing his large hand on the small of my back. The pace of his breath quickens as he pulls my body toward his.
I feel nothing. I am numb.
Suddenly Reinhardt’s attention is diverted from me to the street, where something catches his eye. Outside a young mother carries a small child who is having a tantrum. The elevator bell chimes and the door opens. “Hold the lift,” he says, eyes filled with rage. I watch as he goes and opens the door to the street and shouts at the woman, “Are you aware of the time? Shut that child up or I’ll do it for you!”
It’s a moment, I suppose, to run. But where to? Defeated, I hold the elevator as instructed as Reinhardt stands in the building’s open doorway, continuing his interrogation of the poor woman. I glimpse a small figure slipping into the lobby through the tiny space behind Reinhardt. Between beats of my heart pounding in my chest, I notice a flash of dark hair, and then feel a cold hand on my leg beneath my skirt. I gasp, knowing in an instant it’s Cosi. By some miraculous chance, my daughter has found her way to me.
“Cosi!” I whisper.
“Mama, I escaped!” she says in her quietest voice. “Papa opened the door of the truck. I jumped out and I followed you.”
Adrenaline surges through me. My baby is here, but how can I protect her now? Reinhardt is fiddling with his keys by the front door.
“You have to go, honey,” I say quickly.
She shakes her head. “I want to stay with you.”
I don’t know what’s the better choice: send her out to fend for herself, with Germans on every street corner and Reinhardt looming, or find a way to smuggle her upstairs and protect her inside the apartment.
I can’t bear to part with her again, so I choose the latter, pointing to the stairwell in the corner of the lobby. “Run to the top floor,” I say. “Be quick, and look for me at the top of the staircase. I’ll distract him and somehow find a way to get you in. Run!”
She dashes to the stairwell just as Reinhardt turns to walk back to the elevator. “Now, let’s hope she’s learned her lesson,” he says indignantly. “If there’s one thing I despise, it’s a mother who can’t control her offspring. Let’s go.” He joins me in the elevator, the doors close, and it jerks upward as his eyes burrow into my flesh. I pray that Cosi makes it there in time. Will Reinhardt see her? Can I find a place to hide her? Run, little birdie, run.
And when the elevator doors open, depositing us on the fourth floor, there she is, her little face peeking out of the door that leads to the stairwell. Reinhardt doesn’t notice, thankfully. He’s focused on his key ring and the three separate locks fixed on the outside of the door. The apartment, it seems, is a veritable jail cell. Reinhardt opens the last lock, then precedes me into the apartment; Cosi runs to me, hiding behind me as we walk in. When Reinhardt turns his gaze to the entryway table, she makes a dash down the hallway.
“What do you think?” he asks, turning to me with a proud smile, as if he’d built the place with his bare hands. “Do you like it?”
I only stare ahead.
He frowns, touching my arm lightly. “Come now, it’s rude not to answer my questions.”
I nod.
“Ah, you do like it.” He smiles. “I knew you would. Let me give you a tour.”
Before he can begin, a phone rings in another room, and he disappears to answer it.
“Cosi,” I whisper down the hallway.
She runs to me, and I frantically point to the coat closet. “Wait there until I say.”
“I’m afraid of the dark, Mama,” she cries, Monsieur Dubois in the clutch of her little hand.
“You’re not alone,” I say, patting her bear on the head.
Reinhardt’s voice carries through the apartment, sending chills through my body. He’s speaking in German, and whatever the subject of the call, it has angered him.
I close the closet door as his heavy steps return to the entryway.
“I’m afraid I must go. Important business that must be attended to.” He walks to me and traces the outline of my lips. “I’ll be home tonight, and we’ll get to know each other then.”
I wince at his touch but do my best to remain calm.
“Your bedroom is the third door on the right. Make yourself at home. And don’t get any ideas about escaping. My housekeeper, Madame Huet, resides here full-time. She’s taking her nap now, but she’s the type who sleeps with one eye open, if you know what I mean.” He smiles. “She’s aware of your presence and will be watching you. Further, there are only two exits. This door, which I keep triple bolted from the outside, as you’ve already seen, and…” He pauses and points to the expansive balcony beyond the living room. The building seems so much taller than ours, somehow. Being on the fourth floor feels as if we are up in the clouds. “Well,” he continues, “you wouldn’t want to do that to yourself, now, would you?”
He shuts the door behind him, carefully latching the outside locks, each making a terrifying click. When I no longer hear his footsteps, I run to the closet and reach for Cosi’s hand. “Come,” I whisper. “I’ll take you to the bedroom. We have to hurry. Someone else lives here, too. A housekeeper.”
We rush down the hallway together. The apartment is much larger than ours. I feel disoriented as I peer at the doors that line the walls. Did he say the second room on the right or the third? Or was it the left? I can’t remember, but I decide it must be the third. Yes, the third.
I open the door and its old hinges let out a creak that sounds like a high-pitched scream. The room is small and plain, with only a double bed, a small desk, and a shabby-looking tweed chair by the window. I pull the drapes open and light streams in. The walls look as if they haven’t seen the sun in a very long time and are starved for it.
“Is this where we’ll stay?” Cosi asks softly, touching her hand to the blue wallpaper, which is peeling at the edge.
“I think so,” I say, kneeling down to face my little girl. “But until we find a way out of here, we must hide you. No one can know you’re here. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Mama,” she says in her sweet voice.
I open the closet, then shake my head. This would be the obvious place to hide her, but it isn’t safe. What if the housekeeper came in and found her? No. I point to the bed and tell Cosi to sneak under it, until I can find another place.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” she whispers a moment later from under the bed. “I’m good at hiding.”
“I know you are, sweet child,” I say, my voice cracking. I lie down on the bed above her. I am weary, but I must be strong for her. And I will be. We will make our way through this. Together.
Moments later, I hear footsteps approaching in the hallway outside the door. “Shhh,” I whisper to Cosi, leaping to my feet. “I think someone’s coming.”
A moment later, a stern-looking woman opens the door. She is quite tall, several inches taller than my five-foot, three-inch frame. At least sixty, maybe older, she wears a crisp blue dress and a white apron. Her hair is pulled back into a severe bun beneath her white hat. Frown lines punctuate her face, and her mouth forms a deeper scowl when her eyes meet mine. The housekeeper Reinhardt had told me about, obviously.
“I’m Madame Huet,” she says, looking me over the way one might examine a roast at the butcher shop, be
fore rejecting it for a better cut of meat. “You’re different than the last one. She didn’t hold my attention long.” The housekeeper stares at me for another long moment before turning on her heels. “Dinner is at five. Don’t be late.”
After the door is closed and the sound of her footsteps fades down the hallway, I whisper to Cosi, “You can come out now, honey.” She cautiously pokes her head out from beneath the bed.
“I can’t decide, Mama,” Cosi says to me, obviously deep in thought about something.
“About what, love?”
“That woman,” she says. “I can’t tell if she’s mean or just…sad.”
I love how my little girl’s natural inclination is to consider the good in others, even this cross housekeeper with a heart of veritable stone.
She bounces Monsieur Dubois on her lap. “Papa says that some people seem mean, but they’re just sad inside.”
Tears sting my eyes, but I blink them back. I think about my poor father, slumped over in the back of that German truck. The thought of it is more than I can bear.
“Yes,” I say, collecting myself. “Papa is right about that, dear one. But I don’t know about this Madame Huet. She may be sad, or she may just be…mean, through and through. Just the same, we need to be cautious.”
Cosi nods. “Will the bad man come back?”
“Yes, and perhaps soon.”
She shakes her head. “There isn’t any good in him. Not one drop.”
“I’m afraid you’re right about that, love. So we must not let him find you.”
“Mama,” she whispers. “I have to go to the bathroom.”
A sense of panic comes over me. How will this ever work? How will I keep Cosi safe and undetected in this tiny room?
I open the door as slowly as I can, to minimize the sound of the creaking hinges, then tiptoe to the hallway. I’m relieved to find the bathroom just across, and I rush Cosi inside, locking the door behind us.
“Hurry,” I tell her.
She nods, doing her best to finish quickly, before flushing the toilet. I notice a ceramic pitcher beside the sink and reach for it, filling it with water before we sneak back to the bedroom. Inside, I set the pitcher on the floor on the window side of the bed. “It will be good to keep water here, just in case I leave the room and am…gone for a little while.”
